Miles Off Course (29 page)

All the while he listened closely for any sign that the storm was letting up. There was none. It seemed the rain had set in.

“How far are we from Pocket’s Hut?” Rowland asked, sitting as close to the hearth as he could without scorching himself.

“Five miles maybe,” Simpson said, keeping his eyes on the fire and averted from Edna.

Rowland smiled. “Good Lord, Harry, I didn’t think you could blush.”

Simpson regarded him sternly and poked him in the chest. “A man cannot help but wonder why you’re not blushing,
gagamin
.”

“He used to.” Edna laughed as she combed her fingers through her hair. “The first time Rowly painted me, he was completely crimson!”

Simpson chuckled.

“How’s your arm?” he asked Rowland, still unwilling to let his eyes anywhere near Edna.

“It’s not getting any worse,” Rowland lied. He was doing his best to ignore the pain, but he was well aware of it.

Simpson inspected the rough bandage. Rowland’s arm was bruised from shoulder to elbow, swollen and clearly tender. “We can get you a doctor as soon as we get to
Pocket’s.” He tested Rowland’s forehead. “You’re a little warm. Perhaps you and Miss Higgins should try to catch some shut-eye. I’ll keep watch and wake you as
soon as the rain clears.”

“I’m fine, Harry,” Rowland murmured, though he did stretch out on the swag.

Edna moved closer to the fire to check her clothes. She turned them over to dry the other side and sat huddled in the blanket beside Rowland. It was only close to the fire that it was not cold
and even then the side of her that was not facing the flames became quickly chilled.

“I wonder if Clyde got Milt and Sarah back all right.” She bit her lip anxiously.

“Of course he did.” Rowland wondered vaguely how she could manage to smell like roses after all the rain and the mud. “Clyde’s probably back looking for us by
now.”

“He’ll go to O’Shea’s Hut… What if they…?”

Rowland put his good arm behind his head. “Clyde will bring a few blokes with him. How many men can they possibly shackle to a tree?”

“With any luck, the fact that your friends are poking around will keep them from going back to the cave to check on us,” Simpson said thoughtfully. “If the rain doesn’t
let up soon we’ll be stuck here till morning. We don’t want to risk being stuck in the open at night.”

Rowland stirred as Simpson prodded him with his foot. Edna roused him more gently, shaking his shoulder.

“Rowly, wake up.”

The rain had stopped. It was quiet and dark, but for the fire which Simpson had kept fed through the night. Rowland sat up. “Time to go?”

“The sun will be up soon,” Edna replied.

Rowland was a little surprised that he’d slept so soundly and for so long.

Edna handed him his jacket, now dry. She was dressed. “It’s no wonder you were tired,” she said, as he gingerly inserted his injured arm into the jacket’s sleeve.
“Poor darling, you’ve had a terrible time of it.”

“Rubbish—you’re getting soft, Rowly,” Simpson said, as he re-rolled the swag. “We want to leave at first light.”

“You’re still worried that Moran could find us?”

“Nah, I’m just hungry.”

Rowland smiled. “Fair enough.”

Simpson put out the fire and restocked the logs which had been beside the fireplace from the woodpile outside, and they left Lonesome Hut as they had found it, ready for the next person who
needed shelter from the inclement and unpredictable mountain weather. The rain had left the ground soft and, in some places, quite boggy. The trek was increasingly arduous and it was very cold. It
wasn’t long before the glistening undergrowth had soaked them anew. Rowland grabbed Edna’s hand to keep her from sliding down the steep incline. A little way further up the slope,
Simpson cursed.

“Harry?”

Simpson climbed up onto a rock and looked grimly out over the valley. “They’re coming.”

Rowland clambered up beside Simpson. Half a dozen men on horses were picking their way through the scrub, following their trail.

“It’ll be dead easy to track us with all this bloody mud,” Simpson groaned.

“Can we outrun them?”

“They’re on horses, but in this country it might not be an advantage. Either way we’re going to have to try.”

They set out now with urgency, moving as quickly as they could through the dense scrub. Though they did what they could to keep their tracks invisible, it was an impossible task. The mud and
fragile undergrowth kept a faithful record of their passing. Despite the cold, Simpson was sweating as he led them. In the interests of speed they discarded the swags and blankets and committed
themselves to reaching help before nightfall.

They came over the rise, hopeful that they had increased the gap between themselves and the horsemen.

Rowland saw the movement in the distance ahead of them first.

“Harry!” He got down, pulling Edna with him.

Simpson cursed quietly. “They must have split up and come round.”

“So what do we do now?” Rowland craned his neck around the pale grey trunk of a snow gum.

“This way.” Simpson motioned for them to follow. They moved slowly at first, keeping down, trying to avoid any undue noise, but then they heard the shouts.

“Over there!”

They ran out of instinct more than reason, a wild panicked scramble to escape. Of course they could not outrun horses. Rowland pushed Edna before him as they climbed a steep incline in the hope
the horses would be unable to follow. Simpson grabbed the sculptress’ hand and pulled her up.

“Rowly, come on!”

“Gotchya, you bastard!” Rowland heard Blue Cassidy’s voice just a split second before the rope fell around his shoulders and pulled tight. He was dragged over, his injured arm
taking the impact of the fall. For a moment he could do nothing but swear, and then he rolled, struggling to free himself from the rope. Simpson came back for him. The others arrived—Glover,
Moran and three more Cassidys. Simpson dragged him up, refusing to give in, and then they heard the unmistakable click of a shotgun being cocked.

“So what the hell are we going to do with them, now?” Blue Cassidy barked at Moran.

Moran didn’t respond, glaring at Rowland from behind the double barrel of a shotgun. Glover and Andy Cassidy had also trained firearms upon them. Rowland glanced uneasily at Edna. This was
not good.

“You’ve backed us into a corner, Sinclair,” Moran said finally. “If you’d just stayed put, you would have walked away from this eventually. Now we don’t have
much of a choice.”

“Look Moran, you don’t need to…”

“Shut the hell up!” Moran shouted.

Blue Cassidy pulled on the rope still around Rowland’s arms. Rowland gasped as it tightened on his wound. Simpson grabbed the rope and pulled it from Cassidy’s grip, nearly unseating
him in the process.

“Why you…” the stockman started.

“Leave it!” Moran ordered sharply. He pointed the shotgun at Simpson. “Get the rope off him,” he said.

Warily, Simpson loosened the loop and pulled it over Rowland’s head.

Moran reached into his saddlebag and took out a gun—Rowland’s gun. He tossed it to Glover. “Load it.”

“Why?” Glover asked.

“Because you’re going to use it to shoot Sinclair and the girl.”

Edna gasped, reaching instinctively for Rowland. He pushed her behind him. She was shaking. He didn’t feel that steady himself.

Moran’s crew reacted with alarm.

“You want him to do what?”

“You can’t be serious…”

Moran raised his hand for silence. “I’ll shoot Simpson, we’ll leave Sinclair’s gun in his hand. Sad story… ungrateful blackfella turns against his employer, takes
the poor blighter’s gun and shoots him and his girl.” Moran leaned forward in the saddle, obviously pleased with himself. “Of course we were forced to shoot the murdering bastard
for fear of our own lives. Everybody knows what happens when one of his kind goes bad… sadly it was too late for Sinclair and the girl.”

“You’re flaming crazy!” Rowland put his good arm around Edna and pulled her into him. “No one’s going to believe that.”

“I think they just might—there’ll be no living witnesses to tell them otherwise.”

“Just a bloody minute,” Glover said, looking down at Rowland’s revolver. “Stealing and kidnapping is one thing but you’re talking murder… I ain’t no
murderer.”

“You do this and you’ll all swing,” Rowland promised. He was angry.

Edna’s eyes were fixed on the gun, her face pale with terror. “Oh God, Rowly…” He held her tightly.

“Load the gun!” Moran snapped at Glover. The Cassidys said nothing, dumbfounded. Glover began to load the revolver.

Simpson spoke. His voice was unnervingly calm. “You know, shooting a blackfella is one thing, you could even get off with the right jury. But shooting a woman and a Sinclair…
they’d hunt you down.”

Glover stopped.

Moran pointed his own weapon at Simpson. The click was faint as he cocked it.

The shot was deafening.

“H
arry!”

Rowland pulled Edna down and turned towards Simpson in the same movement. There was no blood. Simpson had recoiled but that was all.

Another shot.

“What the…?” Glover dropped Rowland’s gun and looked for the source of the shots. Moran wheeled around. The Cassidys turned their horses in a chorus of expletives.

“Sinclair’s mine, you bastards—get in line!” The shout came from the trees and was accompanied by more blasts of the shotgun.

Another voice, different from the first. “Drop the guns, fellas, or we’ll blow your ugly bloody heads off!” A series of similar sentiments, more profane, different voices.

Now Moran and his men began to panic. They shot wildly into the trees.

Simpson knelt beside Rowland and Edna, blanching with each shot. “Who else is trying to kill you, Rowly?”

“I don’t know,” Rowland replied. Edna’s face was buried in his shoulder.

Moran made the decision to flee. Glover and the Cassidys followed.

“Now’s our chance,” Simpson urged. “Let’s go.”

They scrambled towards the incline, heading back in the direction of Pocket’s Hut, but not for long. A man on horseback cut them off and then others emerged from the scrub behind them.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Lawrence Keenan rested his shotgun across his saddle and pointed at Rowland. “That’s two horses you owe me for, not to
mention this little expedition… and let me tell you, Sinclair, my time don’t come cheap!”

Rowland stared at him, truly bewildered, and then he recognised one of the other horsemen. “Jim!” He hailed Clyde’s brother, still confused, but now cautiously relieved.

Jim Watson Jones smiled broadly. “Can’t tell you how glad we are to see you, Mr. Sinclair. There are about fifty men out lookin’ for you people.”

“But you’ll be paying for those horses before you pay anyone else,” Keenan grumbled. “Else I’ll sell that fancy rattletrap for scrap.”

“Take it easy, Laurie,” Jim said, still grinning. “Mr. Sinclair will see you right.”

“Of course I will,” Rowland muttered. “Just keep your bloody hands off my car…”

“Actually, I meant the other Mr. Sinclair,” Jim said, climbing down from his horse.

“Wil?” Simpson interrupted. “Wil’s here?”

Jim nodded. “Clyde sent a message back a couple of days ago when he didn’t find you at O’Shea’s. Mr. Sinclair came straight up with about a dozen of his own men. He hired
whoever else was able and willin’.”

“I see.” Rowland let go of Edna and offered Jim his hand. “Thank you, you arrived in the nick of time.”